


Blue Collar Man

by VeronicaRich



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich/pseuds/VeronicaRich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lister s beginning to earn to deal with Rimmer's new identity. SPOILERS for Seres X, particularly "The Beginning."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Collar Man

Lister tolerated Rimmer’s newfound working-class brotherhood for as long as he was able.

He liked that Rimmer had stopped being such a neurotic git, always fretting about not living up to his father’s ( _presumptive_ father’s, he reminded himself) expectations and training. He enjoyed the fact it had been a whole two weeks since he’d had to endure lectures on military history, rewritten with a Rimmerian bent (“Did you know, Listy, that General Bonaparte did not, in fact, have a social disease, but was simply lacking enough vitamin D?”).

And, hell, he absolutely _loved_ what it had done for their sex life. No longer concerned so much with a lingering fussy, pseudo-aristocratic propriety that had marked the first months of their burgeoning relationship, Rimmer had become deliciously filthy in their bunks … up against the walls … against the side of Machine 55 near Supplies twice … and even in A.R. fantasy settings. But it did bother Lister that the man had insisted in their last one that they dress like something out of the lower rungs of a Dickens novel and get it on in the back room of a workhouse while hiding out from the overseer.

Lister was fine with the occasional elbow nudges and low-humor jokes, and even the references to their shared Irish heritage on occasion. But he couldn’t shake the feeling it was all a little … well, forced. The last straw came as he sat one night on the loveseat in their quarters, watching the same “Downton Abbey” vid he’d seen fifty times, legs stretched out on the game table and eating cashews. He heard Rimmer come in behind him and grunted his customary greeting as he popped another nut in his mouth.

A couple of minutes later, he turned his head to ask for a lager as he heard footsteps approaching. The request died on his tongue. “What the smeg is that?”

Rimmer glanced down at the indigo-blue longjohns he’d donned, did a little turn, and smiled. “Lounging clothes, Dave.” He picked up one end of the blanket, dropped onto the empty side of the loveseat, and extended his legs out onto the table, too. Lister stared, mouth a little open, as Rimmer reached over and scooped out a small handful of his cashews. “Surprised you didn’t snag something to drink, too. Want me to get a couple of beers?”

Going back to his viewing, Lister soon pushed aside his unease and accepted both a lager and the arm around his shoulders. It wasn’t bad, actually, especially when the arm eventually pulled him closer and was joined by the other hand unbuttoning his own union suit. The last ten minutes of the episode and half of the next was ignored as they gave the red leather seat and tail fins of the converted Chevy a what-for.

The second night they were both off of watch and Rimmer changed into his tunic-matching longjohns, Lister simply ignored it. And the third night. The next day, however, they were both off-shift, and it was around two in the afternoon that Lister finally realized neither of them had changed into actual clothes. “Why aren’t you dressed?” he asked Rimmer, peering up from his thermonuclear textbook and legal pad.

“Me?” Rimmer looked up over the magazine he was reading. “Whaddya call that?” He pointed to Lister’s red longjohns.

“‘Whaddya?’” he repeated. “Rimmer, what is your deal?”

Rimmer frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Your … THIS. This wearing things you’d never wear in a million years, slobbing about all day. Drinking lager! This isn’t you, man.”

“No, Listy, it IS me. It’s my heritage. My birthright. I’m a blue collar man, now.” He sat up a little straighter, seemed to think different, and then slumped in his chair deliberately.

“See? Such as that!” Lister slid out of his chair and circled the table, pointing at Rimmer’s slumped position. “You always sit so ramrod straight. You dress properly; you polish your shoes-” He glanced down to see fleece-lined slippers on Rimmer’s feet, then gestured up again, at the three-inch-high unruly fuss of uncombed auburn curls on top of Rimmer’s head. “You paste down your hair with that goop. THAT’S you.”

“Not anymore, buddy.”

“Buddy? No.” Lister shook his head. “It’s ‘miladdo.’ That’s you.” He eyed the magazine, then snatched it out of Rimmer’s hands and turned it over. “A _Daily Mail_ from 2179?” He nearly hit a high note as he shook the pages at him.

“It’s who I am now. I’m not the product of kings and generals, and tycoons any longer, Lister. I’m just good old Arnold, salt of the earth, soil of Io. It’s time to stop acting like I’m elevated above what I’m not.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” Lister tossed the magazine at the table. “You’re acting like you’ve suddenly got to start living down to something just because you found out your old man was a groundskeeper. Like it’s something to come _down_ to. Like dressing like me and reading what I used to read is a … a demotion. A lessening. _Below_ what you thought you were.” He snorted. “Like I was below you or something.”

Rimmer was shaking his head. “That’s not what I’m doing. It isn’t!”

“Yeah. It kind of is.” Lister sighed and turned to go sit on the lower bunk. “Look – I know you mean well. Smeg, I think your heart’s even in the right place. I’m not complaining about you reassessing your life and your identity; that’s got to be expected. But you’ve got a basic personality that’s _you_ , Arn. You can’t just go stealing from me because you think you’ve suddenly plummeted to my social strata.”

“I’m – not.” Rimmer looked genuinely confused. Lister, taking pity, asked, “Oh yeah? What’s with the getup, then?” He gestured at the blue longjohns.

Looking down at himself, Rimmer studied his attire and frowned deeply. “I just thought you looked so comfortable in yours. You always seem so happy wearing them. I just wanted to try it myself.” He moved slowly off his stool and slid back his sleeve, punching a few keys on the control watch. Instantly, he was back in the blue trousers and tunic, spit-polished holographic shoes, and tightly-tamed hair.

Feeling like a heel, Lister stood. “Arn, wait a-”

“Just leave me alone, Lister,” was his answer, and Rimmer executed a smart turn before practically marching out of quarters.

*****

It was a busy afternoon and evening for Lister, as he searched three of the ship’s shops and finally bribed Cat into working on something for him, using the felinoid’s triple-speed talents to get it done before Rimmer got off his self-imposed watch that night.

He kept checking the corridor for sounds and, when he heard distinctive footsteps approaching, he scurried to the loveseat, hopped over the back, and settled himself just as he heard Rimmer enter the room. The steps moved around for a couple of minutes, then stopped about where he’d expected them to. Lister slowed his breathing and focused on the television, trying to do the not-listening listening thing. He kept a neutral face as the footsteps came around to the other end of the loveseat, and turned his head slowly. “What’s this?” Rimmer demanded, clutching the gift.

“Blue longjohns.” He dropped his feet to the floor and turned to face the man as he gestured. “Real ones, so you don’t have to use your projection for it. The Cat sewed it this afternoon, but I went and found the material. You know how hard it is to find _that_ shade of blue in actual fabric on board this ship?”

Rimmer’s expression was set and stony, but as Lister talked, it softened by degrees. “I thought you were cross with me for wearing them.”

“I was irritated at you for feeling like you’re making fun of what I’ve been my whole life, and concerned about you acting like something you’re not,” he corrected. “Rimmer- Arn, when you’ve tried all your life to get a seat at the captain’s table and developed your personality around that because that’s what you really want, you can’t just suddenly be happy being pushed down to the steerage decks for a night of dancing.”

Rimmer flared his nostrils. “Have you been watching ‘Titanic’ again?”

“My point is, you’re _you_ , and that’s what you are, and it’s what I’ve learned to love. I’m _me_ , and if I found out tomorrow my Great-Aunt Betty was none other than Queen Elizabeth the Third, this is still how I’d dress, and how I’d eat and drink and slob around.” The skin around Rimmer’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, and Lister felt warm again. “Your dad being a groundskeeper doesn’t change what you’ve made yourself.”

He sighed. “It’s- I don’t know if I’ve done the right things, trying to be this person, after all,” he eventually told Lister. “I’ve always felt a little like a pretender. Maybe this is why.”

“Hey, my sperm donor’s the laziest, naffest git there is, but you don’t see me lounging around forever. I’m taking that robotics course; got myself cleaned up. All right, I still like sitting around in my underwear, but like you said – it feels good.” He gestured at the blue longjohns over Rimmer’s arm. “You want to relax, relax. You want to do something different, do it. But don’t act like you’ve got a sudden license to give up weaseling just because Chief Ferret’s no longer your dad.” He sat back down, put his feet up, and spared Rimmer an arched eyebrow. “Now go put those on and come over here.”

“You ordering me about, Third Technician Lister?”

“That’s going to be Chief Engineer Lister someday,” he countered. “And no, I’m not. You don’t want to put ‘em on and come sit here naked instead, that’s fine with me. Less work later.”

And so, Rimmer changed into the longjohns. Which didn’t stay on long, as predicted.

The next morning, he did his regular morning ablutions and changed into his usual spit-shine blue. That night, he put on the blue longjohns again.

Four days later, Lister came in to find him at the table, face bent over a small pot, poking around in the dirt with one hand, a seed packet and trowel next to it, as he held a small instructional booklet in his other hand. _Baby steps_ , he thought, getting a lager from the fridge and taking a seat across from Rimmer, opening his textbook to Porous Circuit Theory and sipping quietly.


End file.
